by Diane Capri
Jordan considered for less than half a second before she said, “Clayton, turn over that video to your detectives. Then call me right back. I have more to tell you. And it’s important. So hurry.” She disconnected, dropped the phone onto the desk, and clicked a few keystrokes to open the utility that allowed her to search the computer’s recent events, which would show her the records of recent logins and logouts on that particular computer. The one she’d worked from all day yesterday.
Her memory was crystal clear. She’d stayed twenty minutes past the end of her shift last night. Her shift ended at 11:33 p.m. She’d worked on her packages and, just before she left, she’d looked at the weather cam to see if the rain had stopped.
All three vehicles, Ruby’s SUV, Dr. Wren’s sedan, and the red Firebird, were still parked in the clinic lot at that point.
But what time was that?
She’d seen the sedan still in the lot before she left last night and she could prove the time. Because time mattered in television. Every second was literally valued and as often as possible, sold. These logs and cameras were precise, like every clock around here.
The records showed her what she needed to know—she’d logged off the computer at exactly 11:54 p.m.
Which meant that Dr. Peter Wren lied to the police. He’d stayed at the clinic far longer after Ruby arrived than he’d claimed.
Which didn’t make him a killer.
But it did make him a liar.
Once a liar, always a liar, in Jordan’s experience.
What else had Dr. Peter Wren lied about?
She went back to the weather cam video and watched it on fast forward until she saw Wren sprint away from the clinic’s entrance and drive his Mercedes out of the lot. Two hours later, Mr. Red Shorts returned for his Firebird.
This time, he didn’t have the backpack. Where did he leave it? And why?
Jordan fell back in her chair. Her mind was racing from one quick fact to the next and juicing the whole concoction with a steady dose of fear-based adrenaline.
Dr. Peter Wren must have killed Ruby Quinn. He was the last person to see her alive. The video didn’t exactly prove that, but it was strong evidence on the timing. He’d have a hard time explaining it away.
Either he killed Ruby or he was there when Mr. Red Shorts did it, and Wren hung around a while after she died.
Those weren’t the only two options, but they were the most likely two.
And either way, he was guilty of murder because of Florida’s felony murder rule. When a person dies during the commission of a felony, all the criminals involved are guilty. She hadn’t taken that Introduction to Florida Law course for nothing.
Jordan thought about everything she’d learned about Dr. Peter Wren in the past week.
His wife, Estelle Marcon, was afraid of him. He’d hit her at least once, which caused her to run away from Sabatier and she never returned. She was presumed dead.
Before that, for ten years he never tried to rescue her from Tonton Moun Nui.
He worked in Sabatier where the Medicine Factory churned out those orange tablets.
He had armed guards protecting his home in Port-au-Prince with orders to shoot people who only might become trespassers, which was more like a drug dealer than a doctor.
He travelled back and forth from Haiti to Tampa regularly.
He worked in the clinic at Plant University, and he had access to drugs and to the students who abused them.
He was at the clinic when Ruby died.
None of this proved anything, but it sure was compelling circumstantial evidence. Jordan believed with every singing nerve ending in her body that Peter Wren was trafficking in Super Adderall. And that he was responsible for Ruby’s death. Maybe Auntie Marie, too. Maybe even Saint Louis and Estelle Marcon, if they were dead. Everyone seemed to believe that at least Estelle was. The chances of either one being still alive were miniscule and foolish to assume.
Could Dominique Wren be unaware of all of these facts? Jordan understood the bond between fathers and daughters, especially when a mother was lost. But she didn’t see how Dominique could possibly be out of the loop here. The only reasonable conclusion was that Dominique knew, or at least suspected, that her father was a criminal. Which would explain why neither he nor she wanted the notoriety that would come with being a contestant on Instant Pop Star.
Jordan ran through the rest of the video to be sure no other vehicles or pedestrians came or went to the clinic before the doctor who had found Ruby’s body at 6:30 a.m. She saved the full video to the Channel 12 computer archives, and resaved it again on a backup hard drive. And she copied the most important sections to her phone.
None of this video could be lost. Catching Ruby’s killer was way more important than catching lightning.
No word from Clayton yet.
Jordan ran a quick property search for property owned by Dr. Peter Wren in the tri-county area where he could easily commute to the University for work. She found two homes. One was in Tampa, near the clinic. The other was one county north, on the river. She’d give Clayton the addresses so they could get a head start.
She reached to dial, and the phone vibrated under her hand. It was him.
“Sorry it took me so long to call back. Things are moving fast here.” Clayton sounded out of breath. “Still off the record. We know who owns the Firebird. And we got the preliminary tox report back on Ruby.”
CHAPTER 14
Jordan’s impatience flared. “What’s on the tox report? Are those tablets Super Adderall? Is that what killed Ruby?”
“Hang on, Sherlock. One question at a time.” Clayton seemed to be back to flirting. Which could only mean he was feeling full of himself again. “The tox report was a match on three levels.”
“Three?” Jordan counted them off. “A match to Ruby’s murder. A match to Super Adderall. And what else?”
“Turns out our narcotics guys had confiscated some of those orange tablets before. You’ll never guess who they took them from.”
“Clayton. Do you want me to come over there and strangle you with my bare hands?”
He laughed. “Okay, okay. They took a few off Chester Flynn when they arrested him last month. But they followed that up and found a big stash of boxes in a storage facility down at the shrimp docks belonging to none other than Caster Shrimp Company.”
“What? How? I mean—”
“Jordan Fox, speechless. Imagine that.” Clayton was on a roll. “We figure the cartel stashed them in Caster Shrimp’s warehouse. But the point is that they must have come in on shrimp boats from Haiti because they are identical to yours and that’s where you picked them up, right? And that also means the big cartel is connected to this stuff.”
Jordan admitted nothing. She was furiously writing everything down. “Is that connection good news or bad news?”
“Could go either way, honestly. It’s good news at the moment because it helps us solve Ruby’s murder and it’s another thing your pal Salvador Caster’s testimony can help with.”
“And the bad news must be that there’s a lot more to this cartel than you thought if the Super Adderall is connected and it comes from Haiti. That cartel is out of Mexico, right?”
“Right.” He took a pause to catch his breath. “And all of this is off the record, too.”
“So your guys are on the way to pick up Dr. Wren, I assume.”
“Peter Wren? Why would we do that?”
Which was the moment when Jordan realized she hadn’t filled him in on what she’d found while she waited for him to call back. “Wren lied to you. He’s involved in Ruby’s murder.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hang on. Sending you more video right now.” She hit the send button and kept talking. “You’ll see that he was there at the clinic last night a lot longer than he admitted.”
“Opening it now. But so what?”
“I’m also sending you two addresses. Peter Wren owns two homes close to the clinic
. If he hasn’t already left for Haiti, you might find him at one of them. But at least, you could find some Super Adderall stockpiles, maybe. Connect him to the drugs.”
“Okay, Jordan. What the hell are you keeping from me? Do I need to send the detectives over to pick you up and bring you in for questioning?”
“I’ll tell you everything I know. But first, who owns the Firebird?”
Clayton groaned and Jordan pictured him running his hands through his hair. “The soccer team physician, Dr. Eric Lee, owns the Firebird. If you must know.”
“But that wasn’t Dr. Lee driving the Firebird on the video last night!”
“How the hell do you know that?”
“Because I know Dr. Lee and Mr. Red Shorts definitely was not him.” She got about half the story out, the same way she’d told it to Richard earlier, when Clayton put her on hold and called his boss. Both of her legs were jumping up and down while she waited what seemed like twenty minutes.
“So you’re going to Wren’s house right now?” Jordan asked when he finally came back on the line. “Or is he at the clinic?”
“We dispatched officers to both of his houses. We still have a team at the clinic, too.”
“Can you call me with any updates?”
“Yeah. But wait, Jordan. This is off the record, okay?”
“Ugh. All right. But hurry. I’ve got deadlines here.”
She wanted to scramble a photographer and get someone on the scene. But off-the-record meant Channel 12 couldn’t act on it yet.
Jordan worked on the Super Adderall story while keeping an eye on the weather cam. Until Clayton called back fifteen minutes later.
“So the first team got to his river house,” he said, as if he hadn’t hung up at all.
“And? Is he there? Did they arrest him?” Jordan couldn’t spit out the questions fast enough.
“You’ll never guess what they found.”
She still didn’t have the time or patience for Clayton’s guessing games. “You’re right, I’ll never guess. What’d they find?”
“In his garage, about twenty boxes of those orange tablets, the synthetic Adderall.”
“You need to get Dr. Wren in handcuffs right now.” Jordan heard the panic in her own voice, but she couldn’t help it. “He knows I saw the Medicine Factory. He knows where I work. He’s already been here looking for me. He’s gonna either come after me or flee the country, if he hasn’t already. Please make your guys find him.”
“I know you’re worried.” Clayton’s tone had turned serious, caring. “But Dr. Wren’s got much bigger problems than you, Jordan. Just stay put. You’ve got the best protection around you right now where you are. I mean, you’re surrounded by cameras and anyone would have to get through at least two levels of security before they could get to you in the newsroom. I’ll call you when it’s okay to leave.”
She said nothing. Clayton hadn’t watched the Tonton Moun Nui leader bring down that machete on Auntie Marie’s neck. He didn’t understand what Dr. Wren and his cartel were capable of.
“And Jordan. Don’t forget. Still off the record.”
“Fine.” She pouted her lips even though he couldn’t see them. “This is torture.”
CHAPTER 15
Jordan kept an eye on the weather cam while continuing to set up the Super Adderall story. The red Firebird still bothered her.
Dr. Eric Lee owned the Firebird, but who was driving it last night?
She didn’t recognize the guy, but he’d seemed familiar. And not in a good way. Had she seen him before? And if so, where?
Oh, the hell with it.
She dug through her bag and found the business card Dr. Lee had given her when she’d met him at the Tampa airport before the trip to Haiti. She called his cell before she had time to chicken out.
Bad metaphor there, Jordan. She could still hear the screaming chickens in her head whenever she thought about mornings in Sabatier.
“Dr. Eric Lee.” The voice was exactly as she remembered. “Hi, Jordan. What’s up?”
Now that she had him on the phone, the only thing she could think of to say was the truth. “Um. Well. I was wondering about your car.”
“My car?”
“Your Firebird. You own a red Firebird, right?”
“I do.”
He wasn’t making this easy. She should have come up with a better plan before she called. “Well, I saw a guy driving your car last night and I’m trying to find him.”
“Evan Groves? Why do you want him?”
Evan Groves. His name was Evan Groves. She had what she needed. And then she panicked. “Look, I’ve gotta run. I’ll call you back in a few.” She hung up.
Now that was stupid. He’d have a zillion questions. He could even be involved in this whole mess.
Quickly, before she could freak out any more, she texted Clayton: Firebird driver is Evan Groves.
Clayton fired back: We know. We got Wren, too. No longer off the record go for it. PS: We think Groves may be headed to Plant University. But stay inside—Dangerous for you.
Jordan replied: Got it. Will watch for him on weather cam.
She bolted to the Assignment Desk to relay the developing news to Patricia. “TPD is gonna bust a big drug dealer at Plant University any second.” Jordan gulped some air. “We might wanna get someone over there. Like, now.”
Patricia shot her a look of pure malice, icy eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, a frown deeper than the Grand Canyon.
Jordan slunk back to her edit bay, but her anxiety levels were through the roof now. On top of everything, the clock was ticking on the Super Adderall piece. Richard had made it clear what would happen if she missed her deadline.
Jordan tried to work, but she could barely get anything done on the Super Adderall piece; she was glued to the weather camera watching for the red Firebird.
She’d done all she could do from here. At this point, it was up to Clayton and the other police to do what had to be done. Like Richard said, she wasn’t a cop. She was a reporter.
Well, a wannabe reporter, anyway.
Then, Richard showed up, breathing hard. His eyes were flinty. “Hey. I heard you told Patricia to send someone to Plant University.”
That was it.
The last straw.
“I’m sorry if I came off too strong.” Her entire body flushed with heat. She glared right back at him. “I didn’t tell her to send someone. I suggested. TPD is headed to Plant University to arrest Ruby Quinn’s killer. I knew that. Patricia didn’t. It seemed like common sense that we’d want to send someone.”
He registered her point. He didn’t back down, but his tone wasn’t quite as rigid. “Don’t try to play news director here. Stick with your assignment. We do our job, you do yours. Get your damn story done.”
“Got it.” Jordan scowled and turned back to her work. She felt him towering behind her for a couple of seconds before he left.
While she worked, Jordan fumed.
Richard actually believed Patricia’s ridiculous tattling. Like Jordan would ever think of herself as that powerful. One thing that had been made crystal clear was Jordan’s place in the newsroom, which was at the very bottom. Nowhere within light years of the top boss spot.
Someday, when she actually became a news director? Well, if that ever happened. She’d never, ever be as big a jerk to an intern as Patricia had been to her. Hell, someone like Patricia wouldn’t even be on the staff in the first place.
Jordan compiled a list of all the interviews she would need for the Super Adderall story. A doctor, an athlete, and ideally, a student who was in the loop and may be willing to talk on camera if their face was blurred.
She’d tried to get a doctor with her earlier email to Dr. Ross. So far, no response.
And another student? Jordan wondered how much Dominique Wren knew. Nah. She’d be a fool to defy Tonton Moun Nui. And she’d already shown she wouldn’t defy her father. She’d skipped the Instant Pop Star audition simply because he
’d told her to. No way she’d expose him as a drug dealer, for sure.
Where could Jordan find another student? Maybe the one Ruby Quinn rushed to help when they were at the performance on Tuesday could be both the student and the athlete she needed? If she could find out who he was, he could be a brilliant choice. He nearly died from Super Adderall. And Ruby was killed because of the drug. He might be willing to help.
Jordan kept a covert eye on the weather cam. It was Monday. The campus was a lot busier than yesterday. There was a frustrating number of red cars on campus. So far, she hadn’t seen the Firebird.
She glanced toward the river, and it hit her. She knew why Evan Groves seemed so familiar and frightening to her when she’d found him on the video from Sunday night.
She flashed back to Tuesday night, when she’d walked back from Dominique Wren’s performance with her friend, Amy. The athletes were juiced up on Super Adderall and beer. They’d been fighting in the parking lot. A speedboat driver was involved.
Amy had said he was the assistant soccer coach and his name was something like Aaron or Ethan. The soccer team doctor was Dr. Eric Lee. The Firebird belonged to Dr. Lee. There was a small gap in the logic, but really, that guy in the speedboat almost had to be Evan Groves.
She pulled up the archive video of the red Pontiac again. She zoomed in once more on the guy in the video and enhanced the photo’s brightness. This guy was a similar size as the speedboat driver, had a similar haircut, and that reckless speedboat driver would definitely have the audacity to park in a handicapped spot. Jordan was ninety-five percent sure of it.
Okay. Problems all solved. Jordan felt like dusting her hands to show a job well done. Not bad for a wannabe reporter, huh? Tampa P.D. had Wren. They knew about Groves and were on the way to pick him up.
She’d done all she could do to help and they’d never have made so much progress so fast without her. This was her story. She’d get the rest soon enough and get it on the air. Yes!
Uh, assuming you’re still employed tomorrow. Which you won’t be if you don’t get that package done.